


Through a Glass, Darkly

by NomDeGuerre



Series: Parallels [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aaaaaaangst, F/M, Leliana isn't very gentle, Lots of Whump, Part of Series, cullen/female mage inquisitor - Freeform, description of result of torture, ends on a positive though, mage/templar issues, third person limited (Cullen), will eventually be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomDeGuerre/pseuds/NomDeGuerre
Summary: They each have scars, some more visible than others.A mage, tortured by a Templar, trying to stand as a figurehead to the Inquisition.An ex-Templar, tortured by blood mages, trying to be better than his past.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I got HARD obsessed with these video games this past year, and just finished Inquisition (how long do I have to wait for DA:4 now?). And of course, as with many of my obsessions, I have turned to fanfiction. This is my first offering to the fandom, and I hope it entertains.

It’s the hand that’s the first clue.  Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen stare at the limb in the torchlight.  Even though the fire flickers, sending shadows and light dancing across the stone cell, the damage is obvious.

Ring finger a stub, smallest finger gone entirely.  Thick, pale scars squirming down from the wreckage to wrap around her wrist.  The remaining fingers curled and bent like an old woman’s, claw-like and immobile.  More scars discoloring and twisting the flesh.  The elf-mage, Solas, cradles the hand in his, gently.  The mark in the palm sparks and crackles and hisses.

“Did the Mark cause this?” Cassandra asked.   _No_ , Cullen thinks automatically, his soldier’s eyes seeing the truth.  And:

“No,” says Solas grimly.  “This is an old wound, badly healed.  The Mark is simply overlaid atop it.”

Healing magic sparks briefly between his fingers, lighting his frowning face.  The Mark responds by fizzing, throwing green-glowing embers into the air.  The woman makes a noise in the back of her throat, back bowing and face contorting in pain.  Solas pauses, frown deepening, and then he starts pulling down the tall collar hiding the woman’s neck.

Cullen startles, about to protest, but freezes when more scars are revealed.  He hears Leliana inhale sharply, and feels himself go cold at the sight.  Someone had clearly tried to slit her throat, and she had clearly fought against it.  Thin, silvery scars track across her skin, some ragged, some smooth.

“This woman has been brutalized,” Solas says, a hint of outrage in his even voice.  He reaches for her sleeves, pulling them up to bare her forearms.  They’re covered in wounds, too.  Cullen has a sick feeling that they’re from her holding her arms in front of her, trying to defend herself against a knife.

“Leliana, do we have any information as to her potential identity?” Cassandra asks.

“I believe she is Evelyn Trevelyan, youngest daughter of Bann Edvard Trevelyan of Ostwick.  However, she lost any titles or standing her nobility might have left her when she was given to the Ostwick Circle at age nine.”

“She’s a mage?” Cullen asks, heart sinking as her scars took on an even more sinister nature.  Somebody had tried to kill her, had damaged her hand enough that it was unlikely she had much use of it.  If she’d been a Circle mage, then the only possibilities were that a fellow mage had done it… or a Templar had.  

“What do we know about Ostwick Circle?” Cassandra asks.

“The Templars attempted the Rite of Annulment.  But by then, many other Circles had already fallen, and the mages were wary and watchful.  A number of them escaped Ostwick.  She was one of those,” Leliana says.

“But those scars are older than that,” Cassandra says.  “Did Ostwick have a history of… of violence?”

“No,” Cullen says quietly.  “There were a few isolated incidents, as in any Circle, but… it wasn’t anything like Kirkwall.”

“Do you know of any specific incidents that may relate?” Leliana asks.  Cullen swallows.

“Yes,” he replies.  “Yes, I think I know of one specifically.”

He sighs.  “It occurred something like ten years ago, while I was still at the Ferelden Circle.  But I didn’t hear of it until I was transferred to Kirkwall.  One of the Templars in the Gallows… had a reputation.  The story was part of that reputation.  He had apparently tortured and nearly killed a mage at his former Circle, calling her a witch and a temptress.  Some of the versions of the story say she’d been possessed by a desire demon, or that she was simply trying to corrupt a Templar.  But some of the stories said that he had desired her, and she’d refused him, so he attacked her.  The rest of his reputation made it fairly clear which version was more likely the truth.  As did the fact that he had been transferred to Kirkwall after the incident.”

He looks down at the woman.  Solas kneels by her, apparently deep in meditation.  Cullen looks up at Leliana and Cassandra.  The latter is scowling, the former as composed as ever.

“So she might have motive,” the Spymaster muses.  “To blow up the Conclave.  If she was holding a grudge against the Templars, she may not have wanted peace.”

“I… That’s possible, I suppose,” Cullen says, reluctantly.  It didn’t seem to fit.  She didn’t look dangerous by any definition of the word.  But he had to allow the possibility; he’d learned never to trust appearances.  Even a sweet face may harbor a demon below the surface.

“You can learn more if she wakes,” Solas spoke up suddenly.  “But unless I have peace in which to work, there is a strong possibility that she _won’t_ wake.  The Mark is growing, and it is killing her.”

“I must return to my duties; reports from the first patrols will be coming in soon,” Cullen says.  “I leave this matter in your hands, Seeker, Sister.”

He leaves before he can hear them arguing with the elven apostate.  He expects the Breach, and the demons that seem to pour from it onto the mountain, to occupy his attention.  But the image of Evelyn Trevelyan’s broken body lingers like a phantom in his mind.

* * *

The next time he sees her, she is awake, and sealing the main rift at the top of the mountain.  She holds a mage’s staff in her good hand, and points the maimed one at the rift.  Twisting threads of green energy connect her to the Fade tear, the bolts writhing and spitting sparks.  He sees her mouth pull down in a grimace, and then the rift closes with a thunderous clap.  She staggers, going down on a knee.  The soldiers are cheering, relief and battle-high making emotions run hot.  But Cullen can see the toll closing the main rift had had on Lady Trevelyan, and he hurries forward as she swoons.

He’s not quite in time to catch her before she hits the ground, but thankfully she doesn’t go down very hard.  He kneels beside her and checks her over swiftly, pulling off a gauntlet to check her pulse.  It’s fast, but even and strong.  Just exhaustion, probably.

“Closing the rift would have used a tremendous amount of energy,” Solas says as he slots in beside Cullen at her side.  “She will sleep, for a time, but wake undamaged.”

Cullen nods his understanding, as Cassandra comes to stand at his back.  “We should take her back down the mountain.  Commander, would you be willing to carry her?”

“Of course,” he murmured, and carefully arranged her in his hold.  She is small, like most mages.  Circle life was austere, and did not allow for sloth or excesses, but neither did it allow for mages to train their bodies for strength.  Not a warrior’s strength, anyway.  What muscle she had was lean, from walking and carrying her staff.  She was light in Cullen’s arms.

Solas, Varric, and Cassandra follow, the last carrying Lady Trevelyan’s staff.

The soldiers are calling her the Herald of Andraste even before they reach the camp at Haven.

Leliana seems to accept this easily, considering she’d been speculating on Trevelyan’s criminal motives only a couple days ago.  In fact, she seems smugly pleased by the development.

“We can use this,” she says when they assemble for their meeting the next day.  Cassandra is missing, waiting outside for the newly minted Herald, as Solas had warned them she would wake within hours.  “The Mark has been proven to possess the capability of closing rifts.  There are still many left from the initial blast, not to mention the Breach itself.  We will need Trevelyan herself, and support for her.  If the people believe she is sent by Andraste, it will strengthen our cause.”

“However, it has also created more tension between the Inquisition and the Chantry,” Josephine puts in.  Cullen wants to cover his eyes with his palm, but such an exasperated gesture was unprofessional.  He makes do with sighing quietly through his nose.

He believes in the Maker, and Andraste, but the Chantry… Sometimes he feels like the Chantry _doesn’t_.  So much in-fighting, politics, corruption.  It wears him down, makes him tired down to his bones.

There is a knock on the door about an hour into the meeting, and Cassandra comes through, leading Trevelyan.  The mage looks hesitant and a little frightened, but she follows Cassandra willingly enough.

“Herald, if I may introduce Commander Cullen, the leader of the Inquisition’s forces,” Cassandra says, once the door has been closed again and they are all arrayed around the table.

“Such as they are,” he says.  “We lost a lot of soldiers in the valley, and I fear we will lose more before this is finished.”

Trevelyan bites her lip, looking worried, but Cassandra leaves this and turns to continue her introductions.  “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Josephine says politely, dipping a little.

“And you’ve met Leliana…”

“My position here requires a measure of—” Leliana tries to say, but Cassandra overrides her.

“She’s our Spymaster.”

Leliana gives her a dry look.  “Yes, thank you, Cassandra.”

There is an expectant pause, and Trevelyan’s expression tightens and she looks down at her toes.  She hesitates, then says, “Pleased to meet you all.  I’m Evelyn.”

Her voice is a harsh rasp, quiet and uncomfortable.  Solas had warned them that her ability to speak might have been affected by the damage done to her throat, and Cullen is glad for the warning, because none of them react and this seems to relieve her.  The tightness of her shoulders eases a little.

“I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good,” Cassandra says to her.

“Which means we should approach the rebel mages for help,” Leliana says, with a pointed look at Cullen.  He sighs, but responds as she expects.

“And I still disagree.  The Templars could serve just as well.”

“We need power, Commander.  Enough power poured into that mark—”

“Could destroy us all.  Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so—”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana cuts in.

Cullen’s head jerks around to glare at her, words hot in his mouth.  “ _I_ was a Templar.  I know what—”

He stops dead, words vanishing as he takes in the appearance of the Herald.  She looks… terrified.  Eyes wide, face pale, breath fast like a cornered animal.  Her arms are pulled in tight against her body and she looks ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.

And all her attention, her terror, is fixed upon _him._

Cullen feels realization like ice down his back.

Oh.

Her scars _are_ from a Templar.

* * *

She avoids him for the next couple days, and he lets her, understanding the fear and mistrust that darkens her eyes when she sees him, recognizing how she makes sure there is always something—a table, a crate, a person—between him and her.  He makes an effort to speak more gently, to not move suddenly or aggressively, on those occasions when she is unable to avoid interacting with him.  It’s slow going, but he can tell that he is slowly putting her at ease.

It’s worth it, though.  Not even because she’s the Herald, their leader.  She proves herself to have a firm grasp of strategy and tactics, even when she dismisses the more tactical choices in favor of the more philanthropic.  She runs across the Hinterlands recruiting anybody who doesn’t try to attack her, running errands for refugees and farmers.  She has a kind heart, he can see even from just the reports he gets from Leliana’s scouts.  She is someone worth knowing.

Everything he’s worked to gain shatters, however, like the most fragile glass ornament, one week after the rebel mages join them at Haven.

He’s pleasantly surprised with how eager the mages are to integrate into the inquisition forces.  It is probably partly to do with their desire to atone for… for the incident with the Tevinter Magister.  It is also probably partly to do with Evelyn herself.  She seems to inspire loyalty with very little effort.

Leliana catches him as he leaves his tent, on his way to train their heavy warrior complement how to fight beside mages without getting in their way or getting one of them accidentally beheaded.

“Commander,” her voice, softened by the faint Orlesian accent that still colors her words, filters to him through the sounds of the camp and he stops and turns.  The hooded woman strides up to stand before him.  “A word?”

“I have troops to train—” he starts, but Leliana interrupts him.

“It is important, and cannot wait.”

Cullen sighs.  “Very well.”

“Come,” Leliana says, apparently unwilling to have the conversation outside.  Though annoyed at the interruption to his schedule, Cullen follows Leliana to the War Room.  Once behind the thick wood door, Leliana turns to him.

“After the incident in Redcliffe, I thought it prudent to have some way to keep track of the Herald.  We cannot fall apart again if she goes missing.”

“Alright,” Cullen agrees, feeling a little wary.

“To that end, I sent a couple of my agents to Ostwick, to the ruin of the Circle Tower—” Cullen suddenly has a very bad feeling he knows where Leliana is going with this “—And they have only just returned today.  They brought this with them.  I believe you should keep it, as you are the only one we can trust with it who also knows how it works.”

Cullen automatically accepts the small phial, feeling numb.

Her phylactery.  Leliana had recovered Evelyn’s phylactery from the ruin of Ostwick.  Cullen closes his hand around it.  “Leliana, this is a bad idea.  You’ve _seen_ how she reacts to just the thought of Templars.  You know what one did to her.  If she knew I had this… that even a former Templar had her phylactery…”

“And that is why she won’t find out,” Leliana says firmly.  “But you cannot deny we need this, as a back-up plan.”

“It…” Cullen sighs.  “Yes, it would be good to have some way to… to know, for sure, whether she lives.  Where she is.  But this is… It’s wrong to do it like this.  Behind her back.”

“Would she have agreed if we’d asked?  Would she have trusted us?”

A headache begins to bite at Cullen’s temples.  “That’s not—”

The door swings open, and Cassandra and Evelyn enter, deep in conversation.  They stop abruptly when they realize the room is not empty.  Panic blazes through Cullen as Evelyn’s eyes light on him, but he can’t help but to glance down at the phylactery.  It is indeed glowing, as it should when close to its mage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says.  She speaks quietly in an attempt to soften the rough rasp of her damaged voice.  She gives a hesitant smile, a small and fragile thing Cullen aches to know is going to be crushed in mere moments.  “I didn’t—”

She notices it then.  Mages always know their phylactery when they see it.  There is no question whether she realizes that is what Cullen holds.  The tiny smile vanishes.

He’d thought her expression when she’d realized he’d been a Templar had been bad.  It was nothing to how she looks now.  Her eyes are fixed on the phial, huge and dark, full of betrayal and fear and pain.  She goes completely ashen, like a corpse.  Like someone had plunged a dagger into her gut and _ripped_.

And Cullen feels like it had been his hand on the hilt.

He watches, sick to his stomach, as she flees from the room.  From him.

* * *

She goes to close the Breach the next day, a very obvious acceleration of their timetables, but Cullen raises no protests and neither do the other advisors.  They march their force of soldiers and mages up the mountain, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief when the maelstrom in the sky quiets.

But they celebrate too early.  The Elder One comes, with an army of what used to be Templars, before he had perverted them with Red Lyrium.  It sings to Cullen with its proximity, a darker, angrier song than he is used to.  It whispers of failure and despair, and he is ashamed to admit that it affects him.  Hope slips from his fingers.  He thinks they will all die here.

But then, a boy comes, and that poor bastard Roderick admits there is another way out of Haven.  And abruptly there is a spark of hope.  Except…

“What about you?” he asks, staring at the Herald.  She looks up at him, and he feels his stomach lurch at the astonishment in her face.  As if she is _surprised_ he cares.

They stand arrested for a moment, staring at each other, the truth of the situation hanging thick between them without either having to say anything.  She doesn’t answer, but he knows it anyway.  She is going to walk out to face the army, the dragon, Corypheus, alone.  She knows she will die.  He knows she will die.  He knows he can’t stop her; Cole had said Corypheus is here for her, specifically.  If she tries to flee with them, he will follow.  Cullen cannot take her place.  Nobody can take her place.  And yet…

“Perhaps you will find a way,” Cullen says.  For a brief moment, he thinks that she’ll reach out, touch his arm, that she’ll ignore his past and their ill-fated interactions to ask for that small human comfort before she goes to her death.  But the moment passes, and she turns her eyes away.

“Perhaps,” she whispers, and then goes.

The hope Cullen had felt at Roderick’s revelation now tastes of ash on his tongue.

* * *

He fires the signal arrow himself, almost welcoming the burden of knowing he is signaling for the Herald to die.   _We are away, we are free, you can sacrifice yourself now._

They can feel the rumble of the avalanche in the rock underfoot, though they can only hear a muted roar like distant thunder.  Everyone turns their face up toward Haven, watching the flickering lights of the flaming wreckage of their homes snuffing out under the crushing snow.  The powder-fine flakes billow into the air to mix with the smoke.  Nobody speaks.  They wait.

Eventually, slowly, they turn away and retreat down the mountain.  Cullen brings up the rear, helping stragglers and guarding against any survivors of Corypheus’ army coming upon them in the dark.  As he trudges through the snow, he prays, for the dead, for what is left of the Inquisition, for the Herald.

_Blessed Andraste, as you were once shown mercy, so show it to her.  Do not let her suffer.  Holy Maker, speed her to your side; keep from her the dangers of the Fade as she crosses to You._

“Blessed are they who stand before the wicked and corrupt and do not falter.  Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” he recites, and then, softer, closing his eyes, “Draw your last breath, my friends.  Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.”

Cullen tries not to think about what happens next, where they will go and how they will deal with the remaining rifts scattered through Orlais and Ferelden.  If the Herald is gone, they will no longer have the Mark to close them.  Perhaps Solas can—

The thought strikes him and knocks the breath out of him in a gasp, and he fumbles at his cloak with haste-clumsy fingers.

Solas.  Apostate.  Mage.   _Phylactery_.

He still has Evelyn’s phylactery.

It is blessedly warm, faintly glowing, as he pulls it from the secure, hidden pocket it shares with his brother’s coin.   _She’s alive._

Cullen is off like a shot, plunging through the snow toward the front of their procession, where Cassandra and Leliana lead them down.  His furious pace, flinging snow everywhere, draws attention.  But Cullen doesn’t care.  He runs on, breaths puffing into the air like steam bellows.

Cassandra meets him halfway, fury like a thundercloud on her face.  She hisses at him as he nears her: “What do you think you are doing?  You are going to cause a panic in the troops!”

Understandable.  They’re fleeing their destroyed base, having lost so many, including (everyone thought) the Herald.  And here is the Commander, running like all the demons of the Fade are after him.  But Cullen doesn’t care.

“She is alive!” he gasps, holding up the phylactery in his fist.  “She yet lives!”

Cassandra looks confused for half a second, before she realizes just what he’s saying.  Her face transforms into one of shock and burgeoning hope.  “The Herald lives?”

“I need patrols to go back to look for her.  Where is Leliana?”

“Here,” the Spymaster says, briskly.  “Where do you want these patrols, Commander?”

 _Thank the Maker.  Thank the Maker!_  Cullen lifts his hand, pointing.  “She is back toward Haven.  Perhaps she slipped into the passage after us?”

“I will send agents back the way we came,” Leliana says at once.  “But there may have been other paths she took.  This mountain was once mined for salt.”

“I will lead a patrol,” Cullen says, “using her phylactery.  It will lead me straight to her, no matter what path she took.”

“I’m coming with you,” Cassandra declares.  Cullen nods, and doesn’t wait a second longer.  In this blizzard, potentially injured, Evelyn must be found quickly.  As the one who has—who can use—her phylactery, he stood the best chance of finding her.

It is both better and worse than he feared.  He does find her, but she is stumbling, bloody, and so very cold.  He bundles her in his arms, wrapping her in the edges of his cloak.  She shudders against him, eyes staring dazedly, unseeing.

“You’re alive,” he can’t help but murmur, over and over against her hair.  “You’re safe.”

He runs with her, all the way back to camp, feeling her weak breath against his throat.

* * *

“I’m going to give her phylactery back to her,” Cullen tells Leliana, Cassandra, and Josephine.  The Ambassador makes a small noise, but Leliana is the first to speak.

“The only reason she is still alive after Haven is because you had it, and could tell us that she still lived.  If we hadn’t had that, she would have been left to freeze to death in the snow.  And you want to give up this advantage?”

“It is still a betrayal of her trust.  And it… it damages the way she views us.  We’re supposed to be her advisors, not her jailors.”

“Sentiment, Commander?” Leliana asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“No,” he grits out.  “But I tell you now, as long as we have her phylactery, she will never trust us.  She already can barely stand in the same room as me, simply from knowing I was once a Templar.  If we are intending to keep her as a leader…”

“So we explain to her it is for her protection, her safety—”

“That’s already what she was told!  That’s what we told all the mages, when the blood was taken to make their phylacteries in the first place!  And we can see how well she was _protected_ ,” Cullen spits.  “It’s written all over her body.  Crippled hand, scarred throat, ruined voice.  Oh yes, by all means, let us try to tell her the same things she was told before a Templar abused her.”

“Cullen is right,” Cassandra interrupts whatever Leliana is about to say.  “She has proven herself dedicated to our cause; we should treat her as more than a prisoner.  And phylacteries are an understandable sore point with mages, even those who have not been tortured.”

Cullen feels relief begin to unfurl in his gut, but it’s dashed when the Seeker continues: “However, Leliana also has a point.  We need to be able to keep the Herald safe.  If she were to die, or truly go missing, morale would fall disastrously.  The Inquisition would fall apart without her to rally to.”

“So what would you suggest, Seeker?” Josephine asks quickly, trying to head off an argument.

“We speak to her.  Let her know our concerns.  It is likely that she will see the prudence of our having her phylactery, especially now after you have used it to save her,” Cassandra looks to Cullen.  “If we give her the choice, I think she’ll make a rational decision.”

He can’t help but to snort.  At Cassandra’s glare, he says: “Do you really think she will view it as a true choice?  We already hold her phylactery.  We have all the power.  She’ll let us keep it if only to avoid earning our ire.”

“I find it strange that _you_ are the most vocal opponent in this matter,” Cassandra says coolly.  Cullen feels anger surge at the emphasis.  Why _him_?  Because he was a Templar, and thus must want to lock up all the mages and throw away the key?

“It is true that I have seen the horrors out-of-control magic can cause,” he says lowly, bitingly.  “But it is also true that I have seen atrocities visited upon innocent mages for no other reason than that they _are_ mages.  A Templar’s vow is to protect people from magic, but also to protect _mages_.”

“You think you need to protect the Herald from us?” Leliana asks.

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Cullen says, exasperated.  “I’m—”

“ _Enough_ ,” Josephine hisses, and they all stop and stare at her.  None of them had heard her speak so sharply.  She glares at them, dark eyes hard as flint.  “It’s clear we are not going to come to an easy decision about this.  But it’s not the most important point we must address.  We should be figuring out what we do now?  Haven is gone.  Where do we go?  What becomes of the Inquisition now?”

“We don’t know if the threat has passed,” Cassandra says.  “We don’t know if the Herald’s diversion worked and this ‘Elder One’ was buried.  We will have to wait until she wakes and can tell us what happened.  However, we also still have not discovered Divine Justinia’s murderer.  The Inquisition is still needed.”

“After what happened in Redcliffe, I’m not sure the Inquisition would be welcome in Ferelden,” Josephine says.  “But perhaps Empress Celene may be prevailed upon…”

“We cannot be beholden to any one nation,” Cullen protests.  “Especially not Orlais.  We would be ruined by their ‘Game’.  We must be above such—”

“We _cannot_ be above such things,” Josephine retorts.  “Fighting is the province of soldiers, but alliances are the province of diplomats, Commander.  And diplomats must always work _within_ society, playing by the rules of that society.  We cannot lose allies by insulting them.  We must be above reproach.”

Cullen makes a frustrated, exasperated noise, throwing his hands up, and stalks away.  Would no one _listen_?

He ignores the others as they continue to bicker amongst themselves, then break off like he had.  Frustration and desperation are nearly tangible in the air.

And then Mother Giselle begins to sing.

Cullen feels a spurt of annoyance— _Maker, just what does she think that’s going to do?_ —before realizing that his attitude was also not helping.  He takes a slow breath, then another, and tries to relax.  And then he realizes that Evelyn is awake, standing behind the Revered Mother.  Her face is still pale, bruises under her eyes, and she’s leaning unsteadily against a tent-pole.

Tension he hadn’t known was knotting his chest releases, and suddenly the hymn is comforting more than annoying.  Soldiers and civilians are beginning to gather, voices joining Mother Giselle until the sound of the hymn swells and echoes sweetly down the mountainside.  Cullen lets out his breath in a sigh, and then finds himself lifting his voice:

_Bare your blade,_

_And raise it high._

_Stand your ground,_

_The dawn will come._

Evelyn watches with solemn aplomb, even as some of the more devout begin to kneel before her.  Some of the soldiers clasp their fists to their hearts and bow their heads, respectful of this woman who had gone to face their enemy knowing survival would be unlikely.

Watching her, Cullen knows that he is going to give her back her phylactery, permission or no.  Leliana will be furious, and perhaps Cassandra.  But they have been taking and taking from her, demanding every sacrifice.  Cullen wants to give something back.  The advisors might feel safer having it, but _she_ does not.  He will give her back this small part of her life; and it is that, more than just symbolically.  

He wants to be her ally, not a ghost of her past.  He will show her she can trust him, and he will put his trust in the _Maker_ , not some phial of magic and blood, to keep her safe.

_The night is long_

_And the path is dark._

_Look to the sky,_

_For one day soon_

_The dawn will come._

* * *

Skyhold is a miracle in itself.  That there is a fortress only two days’ travel into the very mountains they have found themselves wandering without shelter… that the fortress is abandoned, yet still inhabitable… It would be almost too good to be true, but it _is_ true.  It is a relief amid so many other worries.

Josephine works nearly sunrise to sundown, trying to reassure their supporters that the Inquisition has indeed survived the destruction of Haven and that their alliances will still be honored.  Leliana and her agents work tirelessly to gain more information about what exactly had happened in Haven—who this ‘Elder One’ who attacked them is, why he attacked, and what happened after Evelyn had dropped a mountain on him.

“I don’t know if he’s dead,” the Herald had said grimly, when she was well enough to report on her side of the story.  “His dragon swooped down on him as the avalanche reached us.  I’m not sure if it carried him away or got caught by the snow, too.”

They had decided to act as if the Elder One had survived.  But they know little about him, and so Leliana has been running her agents ragged, looking for information.

For his part, Cullen has been drilling his troops, organizing the restoration of Skyhold, trying to manage their camps scattered throughout Ferelden and Orlais, and trying to get their new recruits trained up.

And, if he is honest, he has been marshalling his courage to speak with Evelyn alone, to give back her phylactery and explain himself.  It’s difficult.  So much lies between them, the mere idea of conversation seems daunting.  But he must do this thing.  So, before he loses his courage, he sends a messenger to the Herald— _Inquisitor_ , now—to ask her to meet with him, at her convenience.

He doesn’t expect her to come immediately, so when there’s a knock on the north door of his office, he just thinks it’s another runner with another report.  He calls: “Enter!”

The door creaks open, and Evelyn’s soft rasping voice hesitantly says: “You wanted to speak with me, Commander?”

Cullen stands from his desk like he’s been shocked.  “Herald!  I mean, Inquisitor!”

 _Oh, Maker_ , he thinks.  A corner of his mind watches despairingly as he fumbles and shuffles.  “I, ah.  I did not mean for my message to interrupt anything…”

“Oh, no,” Evelyn says, hands fluttering through the air.  “No, I wasn’t… I wasn’t presently occupied when your messenger found me, so I just… I can come back?”

“No,” Cullen says, gripping the back of his neck.  “No.  Now is as good a time as any.  Ah… Please, sit.”

He motions to a chair at the corner of his desk, and sits down himself as she creeps forward.  Sliding his hand into his pocket, he turns the phial of her phylactery between his fingers, over and over.  Once Evelyn is seated—on the edge of the chair, like she might have to spring up and flee at any moment—he lets out a slow breath, and pulls the phial out.  Placing it on the desk, closer to her than to him, he chances a glance at her face.

She’s staring at the phylactery, gaze unreadable but for the thread of want that thrums between her and the phial.  Cullen sits back slowly.  “I, um.  I wanted to apologize, before all this happened, about… about this.  I…”

All the carefully crafted words he’d intended to say have fled in the face of actually saying them.  He clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Leliana told me you didn’t know she’d gotten my phylactery, and that you disapproved,” Evelyn says very quietly, not lifting her eyes from the object.  “And that you might do this.”

“Ah.  She… she did?” Cullen asks, surprised.  He feels a wave of relief, and of gratitude to the Spymaster.  “When did she speak with you?”

“Oh, just yesterday.  She…” Evelyn pauses, seeming as uncomfortable as Cullen himself.  “Well.  She said you were worried about speaking to me.”

“Ah, well,” Cullen fumbles.

“She also told me that I shouldn’t accept your offer.”

“She...what?”

“She said you were going to try to give me my phylactery, but that I should tell you to keep it.  She said the reason I’m still alive after Haven is because you had it and used it to find me in the blizzard.  She said it’d be best if you continued to have that option, if anything happened to me again.”

Some of Cullen’s gratitude toward Leliana dries up.  “Yes.  I did use it to find you.  But, this shouldn’t be an Inquisition decision.  This should be _your_ decision.  Lady Trevelyan, do you _want_ your phylactery?”

Her eyes flash up to meet Cullen’s, for the first time since she found out he’d been a Templar.  Their bright directness startles Cullen, and he feels his heart give a thump.  But her gaze flickers away almost immediately.

“Yes,” she whispers.  “I… I do.”

“Then you should take it,” Cullen says gently when she doesn’t move.  Slowly, she reaches out and takes the phial of her blood.  It glows like a star in her hands, as she cradles it carefully in her lap.  Cullen thought she’d leave immediately after getting it, no further reason to stay in his presence.  But she stays seated, unmoving, staring down at the phylactery.

“Commander?” she says.  “I… Forgive me, but… why?”

Cullen sighs, rubbing his neck and considering how to explain.  She waits patiently.  Finally, he decides to start at the beginning.  “I joined the Templars because I wanted to help protect people.  Not because I had any particular feelings toward mages or the Chantry.  I grew up in a small farming town, and I’d only seen a mage once, and he was a Circle-trained researcher who kept to himself.  The two Templars assigned to our Chantry mostly dealt with bandits or dangerous wildlife.  When I looked at them, all I saw were men and women who protected others, and I wanted that.  I begged to be trained.  When I was thirteen, my parents finally allowed me to go.  I didn’t realize…”

Cullen stops, seeing the memories of Kinloch and Kirkwall stretching before him like a dark tunnel.  He clears his throat.  “Through my service, I saw so much pain, I saw abominations, and I saw Templars abusing those they should be protecting.  I saw how broken the system really was.  When Cassandra came to offer me a position with the Inquisition, it was not a difficult decision.  I didn’t want to be part of that anymore.  I quit the Order.  I chose to stop being a Templar, and to stop… to stop taking lyrium.”

He glances up at her, to find that she has fixed him with the most direct gaze she has ever pinned him with, eyes wide.  He manages to meet her gaze.  “Not many know what lyrium does to Templars.  It’s addictive.  It’s a leash, a way the Chantry controls the Order; they control all lyrium distribution.  Disobey orders, speak dissent, and your philter may be withheld.  If your transgression is particularly bad, you may be excommunicated, and then you have to turn to crime and smuggling to get lyrium.  And if you don’t… Lyrium withdrawal is unpleasant.  Some of those who stop taking it go mad.  Others die.”

“You might die?” Evelyn says, sounding aghast.

“That’s not the point,” Cullen says, a little tersely.  “My point is that I had that choice.  To slip my leash.  I suppose I just… want you to have the same opportunity.”

She’s still staring at him with a concerned wrinkle between her brows.  Cullen fights the temptation to start fiddling with the papers on his desk.  “If that’s—”

“Do you not think mages should be kept in towers?  Locked away to keep them and the common folk safe?” she interrupts.  She does not bother to gentle her voice, the full damaged rasp of it making the question bite.

“Well, no.”  Cullen answers, and catches the flare of surprise on her face.  “I do believe that the Circles are necessary—mages must be trained to use their abilities safely—but once a mage has been Harrowed, I don’t believe we should keep them there.  There is no reason to keep a mage who has proven they are disciplined and can resist possession locked up in a tower, as you say.  Circles should be schools, places of instruction, not prisons.  And… perhaps, if they weren’t, mages who are desperate for freedom will not be driven to blood magic to try to escape.

“The Chant says ‘magic should serve man, not rule over him’.  But the way that has been interpreted has led us to treating mages like slaves, even while the Chant also speaks against slavery.  If mages were actually allowed to go out, to become part of a community, to become healers or soldiers, to actually _serve_ in the honorable sense, then perhaps—” Cullen cuts himself off suddenly, realizing that he has become a little too impassioned, even gesturing as he speaks.  He lays his hands deliberately on top of his desk.  “Forgive me.  I did not mean to lecture at you.”

“No, I…” she clears her throat.  “I appreciate you sharing your views.  It gives me hope that someone like you, who was traditionally educated by the Chantry, trained to be a Templar, can think that mages aren’t...”

She stops, flushing a little.  It’s obvious she was going to say something uncomplimentary.  Cullen’s mouth quirks dryly.

“I was in Kirkwall when the Champion was there,” he says.  “I knew he was a mage, an apostate.  But I also knew he wasn’t a maleficar, and that he was helping people.  So I didn’t report him, or try to bring him in.”

“But Varric says—” and she snaps her mouth shut again.  Cullen looks down at his hands, fingers spread against the grain of his desk.

“You don’t have to worry about angering me, Inquisitor,” he says quietly.  “You can say anything you wish, with no fear.”

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, unable to look at him.  “I’m not afraid of you.”

He blinks, but then she corrects herself: “Or, I don’t _want_ to fear you.  I’ve watched you, listened to you.  I know you’re a good man.  But it’s difficult to forget… I’m sure you all have assumptions about how I got my scars, and yes, it was a Templar.  And even though I _know_ you’re not like him, it still… It still shadows you.”

“I understand,” Cullen says, and he does.  Hadn’t he fought against the shadows Kinloch had cast upon his mind?  Isn’t he still fighting them?  He sighs.  That she’d mentioned Varric means she’s talked to the dwarf about him, about Kirkwall.  She knows what he’d done, probably what he’d said.  “I wasn’t a good man, before.  That I ever… Well.  My past actions shame me.”

“I know.  But you’re trying,” Evelyn says.  “You’ve decided to be better.  You… you’re risking your life to leave the Templars.  That means something.”

Cullen can feel his shoulders tense at even the oblique reference to lyrium.  He casts about for something to say, but she continues: “Thank you, Commander.  For this.”

She looks down at the phylactery still cradled in her lap.  “And thank you for speaking to me.  This conversation was probably long overdue, and I’m… I’m glad for the chance to know you better.  I’d like…”

She trails off.  Her eyes scan his face, and she stands up and extends a hand.  “Truce?”

Cullen stands, too, and reached carefully for the proffered hand, gently enfolding her fingers in his larger palm.  “Truce.”

She squeezes his hand once, very slightly, then slips her fingers from his loose grip.  “Good day, Commander.”

“Good day, Inquisitor,” he replies quietly.  The moment feels larger than it is, and he watches as she slips out of his office with her phylactery tucked carefully into a pocket.  There is a sense of healing, of relief, and Cullen sits back down at his desk feeling lighter than he has in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not done with these two. This'll be a series of short fics; I'm not sure how many, but this isn't the end. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
